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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24523462">Hand to Hold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/soroga/pseuds/soroga'>soroga</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A little Dedue/Everyone, Azure Moon Route, Canon-Typical Racism, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Dedue Molinaro, The Restoration of Duscur, Touch-Starved, hand holding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:48:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24523462</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/soroga/pseuds/soroga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dedue stands a careful, appropriate distance behind Dimitri at all times, ready to catch him if he falls. But he does not touch anyone, and no one touches him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FE3H Kink Meme</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hand to Hold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dedue’s sister had loved to dance.</p><p>She would start out in the traditional Duscur style, bare feet sure and quick over the spring grasses. A hop, then a step-together-step, then a sideways movement of the body. But she’d also mix and match, her long arms stretching up to the sun as she lifted one foot to rest against the opposite calf, her hands flexing into outward curves as she bent forward, her long braid swinging over her shoulder. </p><p>She’d always looked a little ridiculous to Dedue, who felt too awkward in his own body to move so spontaneously, and she never paid enough attention to where her feet landed. Either Dedue or their mother always had to warn her not to step on the flowers, and inevitably a stem would snap under her feet anyway. </p><p>But when she finished dancing, her care would return. She would crouch beside Dedue as he checked the leaves for rot, watching closely even though she herself did not care to garden, and when he handed her a flower, their fingers would brush as she made sure to fully grasp the stem before pulling away. Dedue was always giving away flowers: to his mother, in thanks for her guidance; to his little cousins, to be tied into their sashes; to the god of the earth, in recognition of their bounty. But Dedue’s sister was the one who received them the most, taking them with gentle fingers to tuck in her hair, then leaving them strewn across the field for Dedue to find later when she lost herself in her dancing and they all fell out.</p><p>This is how Dedue tries to remember her: not as a dead face, half-eaten by the flames spreading over Duscur, but as a set of living hands, moving in the wind. A set of fingers twirling a red blossom before tucking it behind an ear. A touch against his hand, sturdy and reassuring, something he had hardly thought of at the time because he couldn’t imagine losing it.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never used flowers in cooking before,” Ashe says.</p><p>Nevertheless, his hands are sure and swift as they flatten out the dried, sugared blossom and quickly cut them into strips, one after the other. </p><p>Ashe’s hands are a lot smaller than his, but they are nimble and strong. Ashe keeps his pointer finger on top of the knife as a guide as he cuts, his other hand pressed flat against the cutting board on the side closest to Dedue to keep it steady. The long lines of his tendons stand out starkly on the back of that hand; he’s left it splayed with just enough room between his fingers that another set of fingers could easily interlace with them. </p><p>It reminds Dedue of another pale hand he’d clung to on that first night of the massacre, silent and raw. Neither he nor Dimitri had spoken, nor would they have understood each other if they’d tried, but their panicked, ragged breathing had matched, and that had been a language of its own.</p><p>Dimitri’s hands had been bloodstained and trembling. When they stood to meet the approaching knights, he had stumbled, and Dedue had caught him in his arms without letting go of his hand. </p><p>It was the last time Dedue can remember touching someone. In the three years since, he has stood a careful, appropriate distance behind Dimitri at all times, ready to catch him if he falls again. Dimitri has not fallen, and Dedue has not felt the touch of a trusted person since. </p><p>“Dedue?” Ashe is watching him, now, gaze curious and open. He lets the knife rest against the cutting board without letting go of it, and Dedue drags his gaze up from the shadows that curve around Ashe’s knuckles to his face. </p><p>“I have only seen them used a handful of times before,” Dedue admits. He’d never had trouble growing flowers, but sugar had always been expensive. It had been a special treat, just for his sister’s birthday. His mother had taught him how to sugar rose petals one by one - a time-consuming process, but Dedue has always been patient, and it was worth it every time for the look on his sister’s face.</p><p>It is strange how a clear, happy memory is enough to make Dedue’s chest cramp with grief. But he has gotten very good at continuing on through pain. “They are best used as a complement to shortbread or lemon tarts,” he says. “Some enjoy them as an accompaniment to tea. But desserts that are high in fat bring out their flavor.” </p><p>“I see,” Ashe says, nodding seriously. He always listens to Dedue so intently. It is odd. In Duscur, Dedue was not yet a man; in Fhirdiad, he was an abomination. Here, people still whisper and stare at him in the corridors. But Ashe looks only in fascination and meets his eye every time. “Can you use any flower?” </p><p>“Each flower has its own flavor,” Dedue says as Ashe starts chopping again, the movement of his wrist unhurried but exact. “Some are preferred above others. But most can be used. It is easy enough to test the flavor of a bloom to see if it is suitable.”</p><p>“Oh! That makes sense,” Ashe says, knife scraping over the cutting board as he pushes his finished work to one side to give himself more room. “I have to admit, the thought of eating a flower is a little strange, though. I’ll have to try it sometime. Though not with any of the greenhouse flowers, of course.” </p><p>He smiles as he says it, dimples forming above the corners of his mouth. </p><p>Dedue drops his gaze again. Ashe’s hand still rests on the edge of the cutting board, near enough that Dedue could put his own hand on the table in front of him and brush his smallest finger against Ashe’s in the process.</p><p>Instead, Dedue keeps his hands at his sides and watches Ashe’s knife descend again and again, tearing the flowers apart. </p><p> </p><p>He is not awake when he is rescued.</p><p>Dedue had clung to consciousness long enough to see Dimitri run, bloodied and dazed but alive. Then everything had dissolved into chaos. The hounds of the empire had wanted to execute a prince; a man of Duscur was a poor substitute, but they tore into him nonetheless. He had already been bleeding profusely from the struggle to free Dimitri from his cell in the first place. He was quickly overwhelmed, and as a lance pierced his armor, he was certain he would never wake again. </p><p>It is quite a surprise to open his eyes once more and see the ceiling of a tent. Even moreso to turn his head and see the flap of the tent is covered in a sash embroidered in a familiar ceremonial style. </p><p>“Don’t move your head too much,” someone says to him in the language of Duscur. The sound of it makes Dedue’s tongue seize in his mouth. It is the first time he has heard it outside his own thoughts in years. </p><p>He is tugged slightly more upright, his head tilted up just enough that he can drink without choking. There are flowers in the water; he can taste them and feel them bob against his lips. It is an old remedy of Duscur to aid healing, but these are not flowers of Duscur.</p><p>“Where,” he asks once the cup recedes. He sees the person caring for him only in snatches - a bright eye half-covered by long white hair, a hand reaching towards him and then away again. </p><p>“Sleep,” he is told, and he does. </p><p>He spends days drifting in and out of consciousness. It is over a week later when he finally realizes the ones who saved him are the men of Duscur who the professor helped him turn away not even a year ago. He hears them talking outside his tent, bits and pieces too distant to understand yet soothing and familiar. He never hears children. </p><p>The healer caring for him is a man with twisted, burn-scarred hands and a permanent frown on his face. Dedue thinks he must be very old, until one day as he changes Dedue’s bandages he abruptly says, “my children are dead, but my eldest would be your age, I think,” and suddenly Dedue can see how it is grief alone that has carved long lines over his face.</p><p>“I am sorry,” Dedue says. </p><p>The healer grunts and says no more.</p><p>The leader of the men comes and visits him once he is able to sit upright and hold a conversation without drifting off. He is called Nofre, and he stands as though there is a great weight dragging his shoulders down before sighing and coming closer.</p><p>“I told you, the people of Duscur never forget their debts,” he says, slouching by Dedue’s bedroll as he looks down at him.</p><p>Dedue is getting tired of being looked down at. He is not used to having to look up to make conversation. “Yes,” he says. “And we will do what we must to repay them.” Between men of Duscur, such a thing is a matter of honor.</p><p>Nofre nods at Dedue. “So you haven’t lost your Duscur spirit after all,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.” </p><p>It is from Nofre that Dedue learns that Dimitri has been declared dead, something that alarms Dedue before the details make it clear that it’s a lie set forth by the empire. This makes Dedue relax, possibly for the first time since Dimitri's initial capture. If Dimitri had been caught again by the empire, they would have made a display of his body to remove all doubts. The fact that this false story is all they have reassures Dedue that, wherever Dimitri might be, he is alive, and well enough to escape detection. </p><p>Nofre visits Dedue often as he heals, a process that is slow and frustrating. It is several weeks later, after a very frustrating afternoon spent working up the strength to stand for more than a moment at a time, that Dedue finally says, “we are not in Duscur.” </p><p>It is not a question. He was too badly injured to have survived a journey from Fhirdiad to Duscur. Even now, he is at best half-healed, and he feels as if Dimitri is slipping ever farther from him with every moment he spends lying in this bed. </p><p>“Kleiman finally kicked us out,” Nofre says. “He wanted to all along. It seems the Duchess of Faerghus gave him the support he needed to finally do it. His men showed up with swords and torches not too long after the Dukedom formed. They said they would burn anyone who didn’t run.” </p><p>Dedue had thought that might be the case, but it still hits him like a blow to his vulnerable, healing chest. <i>Burn anyone who didn’t run</i>. In some ways it might be considered a mercy; four years ago, no warnings had been given before the burning started.</p><p>He thinks of the Faerghus Dimitri promised to build, a kingdom proud of Duscur blood, and his own promise to Nofre that Dimitri would find a way. </p><p>He has been bedridden for far too long. “Please, help me to my feet.” </p><p>Nofre raises a brow. “You are still injured. Will you crawl back to Fhirdiad?”</p><p>“If I must.” </p><p>Nofre’s hand is large and oddly proportioned, his long palm widening out at his thick knuckles and narrowing again to short fingers. It reminds Dedue of his father’s hand as it clasps his, shockingly warm. The contact sends a jolt through Dedue, far stronger even than the nausea of forcing himself upright after wearing himself out already doing the same. Even after Nofre lets go, Dedue still feels the ghost of that warmth against his hand.</p><p>“You need not leave so soon,” Nofre says. “You could stay and heal completely among your brothers.”</p><p>Dedue never had brothers. Only a sister.</p><p>“I thank you,” Dedue says, “but I know what I must do.” </p><p> </p><p>It is remarkable to Dedue how little the greenhouse has changed over the last five years. </p><p>The monastery itself is livable, but there is still more rubble to clear out every day. It is, perhaps, better not to think of the cathedral itself. No one is willing to disturb Dimitri long enough to clear it completely. But the greenhouse looks much as it did when they were students. Many of the old plants likely rotted away, but the professor had planted new ones in Dedue’s absence. Some of the plants of Duscur that Dedue had carefully tended all those years ago have somehow managed to survive, their broad, waxy leaves healthy and full despite years of neglect. </p><p>Dedue is feeling the roots of one of those plants for rot when Mercedes crouches down beside him. “Hello, Dedue. Checking on the flowers?” </p><p>“Yes,” he says, pulling his fingers out of the soil. He shakes his hand to rid it of any loose dirt, though flecks of rich earth still cling to his fingers, filling the crevices of his knuckles. “The professor has done an admirable job. I do not believe these plants need more from me to thrive.” </p><p>“Don’t they?” Mercedes hums consideringly. “Well, it’s still good of you to check on them. I think we all would have preferred if you could have been here to look after them either way.”</p><p>“I would have preferred this as well.” It is Dedue’s own fault he was late - by the time the Millennium Festival came around, he was nowhere near Garreg Mach, too busy chasing another story of a man with monstrous strength killing imperial troops that ended up being a fantasy. He should have known better. Dimitri had promised to come, and even as troubled as he is now, Dimitri is a man of honor. </p><p>“Do you think you’ll keep a garden once all of this is over?” Mercedes asks.</p><p>“Perhaps,” Dedue says. The thought of keeping a garden in Fhirdiad does not fill him with the same peace that the flowers here do. Perhaps it is because of those three years he lived in Fhirdiad with Dimitri, barely able to step foot outside of his quarters without being hissed at or spat on. The palace gardens had been a place of torment for him, not of respite. </p><p>But it will be different when Dimitri is king. So he adds, “I am sure His Highness will allow me to.” </p><p>“Allow you to?” Mercedes cocks her head. Her gaze is as focused on him as Ashe’s always is, but there is a piercing quality to it that makes it an effort to hold eye contact. “Do you plan on being his vassal forever?” </p><p>“I owe him a debt.” </p><p>“Hmmm.” Mercedes looks at the plant before them. It’s grown immensely after five years without disturbances, countless dark leaves dotted with red, star-shaped flowers spilling in every direction. “Don’t you think you also owe a debt to yourself?” She plucks one of those flowers and tucks it behind her ear.</p><p>Dedue’s breath catches in his throat.</p><p>He is certain his expression does not change. He has too much experience being caught on the sharp edges of grief at the wrong time to let it show on his face. But somehow Mercedes knows. Her hand drops from her hair and, before Dedue can even think to stop it, falls on his. </p><p>“Mercedes,” Dedue says, alarmed. “This is inappropriate.”</p><p>Her fingers are much smaller than his, and much colder. The shiver that runs up his arm as her fingertips stroke over his palm has nothing to do with this. </p><p>“Inappropriate?” She asks, squeezing gently. “How could this be inappropriate? I’m only holding your hand.” Her fingers are so soft, and the light press of the heel of her palm against the back of his hand makes him far too aware of the dirt still on his hands and the scars that will never leave. </p><p>“I am - ” <i>a man of Duscur</i>, he almost says, but the words die on his tongue when he looks into Mercedes’ eyes, her gaze gentle but determined. </p><p>“Who are you worried will see?” She asks. “It’s just us.” Her thumb caresses the jut of his wristbone. “Isn’t it nice sometimes to hold a friend’s hand? I hold Annie’s hand when she gets scared. It’s good to be able to rely on one another.” </p><p>“It is,” Dedue manages to say. He is certain he is blushing, but he can do nothing about it. Mercedes’s hand is so small against his and her touch is so gentle, and still it overwhelms him. He finds it difficult to think of what to say, distracted by the way her fingers curl against the side of his hand and into his palm. </p><p>“These flowers are so beautiful,” she says, touching the dark leaves once more with her other hand. “Will you tell me about them?” </p><p>Dedue opens his mouth to tell her of their growing cycle, or their water requirements, or how often they flower. Instead, he says, “my sister was named for them.” </p><p>He can say nothing more. But Mercedes understands anyway, her hand squeezing his, no longer so cold now that his own hand has warmed hers. </p><p> </p><p>After the war, Dedue goes to Duscur. </p><p>He would have preferred to stay at Dimitri’s side, but Dimitri bid him to go. “I promised I would reconcile with Duscur,” he said, his remaining eye bright and full of life. “How can I if I know nothing of the state of the land?”</p><p>So Dedue goes to the wreckage of his homeland. Large parts of it are unrecognizable. Kleiman and his men apparently put much stock in the rumors of rare minerals from Duscur; much of the peninsula has been flattened, its forests decimated by Kleiman’s clumsy mining techniques. Kleiman’s men had knocked down the burnt-out shells of Duscur homes and replaced them with the ugly stone homes the Faerghans favored. All of the upheaval has damaged the soil quality as well; everywhere Dedue goes, he sees the plants of Duscur withered and small, struggling to live where they once thrived.</p><p>But they do live. Some parts of Duscur cannot be changed so quickly by the hands of men. Dedue follows the Duscur river until at last its bends and forks are familiar to him. </p><p>He expects the sight of the place where his home once stood to fill him with grief. But there is nothing here to remind him of his mother’s patience, or his father’s humor, or his sister’s cheer. There are no flowers here, and he feels nothing but exhaustion looking at it.</p><p>The first year is hard, but Dedue is used to this. Nothing grows, and the Faerghans who stayed even after Dimitri formally willed Duscur back to its people stare at him in suspicion every time he goes out to tend the soil. He sleeps in a tent for the first month, as if he is still at war, and during the day builds a new home for himself out of the wood that arrives from Faerghus. </p><p>It is frustrating to rely on Faerghus, but there are few enough trees of Duscur left that Dedue hesitates to cut down more than are truly necessary. And Dedue cannot truly hate the deliveries, as each one comes with a letter from Dimitri, sharing his own trials in Fhirdiad and little personal asides he seems almost embarrassed to include. </p><p>Dedue writes back reports of his progress. It is slow; the people of Duscur long for their home, but after being chased from it twice in the last decade, they are hesitant to return. Dedue is the only man of Duscur in his town for the first six months, still surrounded by angry, resentful Faerghans even in the land that has been Duscur since long before there was a Kingdom of Faerghus.</p><p>And then one day Dedue emerges from his hastily-built house and finds that he is no longer the only man of Duscur.</p><p>Nofre has made it through the war with no more scars than he had all those years ago when Dedue last saw him. He looks at Dedue’s house with crossed arms, nodding at Dedue as he approaches. “That prince of yours put out a message that any from Duscur who came back were entitled to free land,” he says. “I suppose I should be pleased that the Faerghans are graciously offering us our own land instead of taking it once more.” </p><p>“The offer was my idea,” Dedue says evenly. It has not escaped his notice that none of his countrymen had been able to settle in Faerghus. It is difficult to buy land when one is impoverished after being forced to flee and even more difficult when the Faerghans would rather starve themselves than sell land to the people of Duscur. He hopes the promise of a plot to tend will lure in more than just Nofre’s men. But it is a start.</p><p>Nofre himself merely grunts. “This house of yours looks ready to fall apart.” </p><p>“I am not much of a carpenter,” Dedue admits.</p><p>“Once, that is all I was.” Nofre touches his shoulder. The warmth of his palm sears through Dedue’s shirt. “Come. I’ll build you something better.” </p><p>The second year is easier. The soil is improving. It is still not as it once was, but Dedue starts to plant anyway, sending a prayer to the god of earth as he nestles each seed into the soil by hand. </p><p>Ashe visits not long after the spring rains arrive. He is full of compliments for Dedue’s new house and Dedue’s efforts, insistent when Dedue tries to demur. “No, I mean it!” He says again and again, until it becomes something he says while laughing, the phrase worn into a joke through repetition. </p><p>Ashe comes with presents: dried meats, dried herbs, ground spices. “From the professor, mostly,” he says sheepishly. “Oh - but there is something from me!” </p><p>He presents Dedue with a little packet of sugared blossoms. </p><p>Dedue takes it carefully. Their hands brush, Dedue’s fingertips skimming over the backs of Ashe’s fingers for a bare moment before he pulls back, the paper crinkling in his hands. </p><p>“I know there’s no lemon, and I don’t know if there’s any butter, so tarts might be out of the question,” Ashe says. “But I hope you can enjoy them on their own!”</p><p>They are flowers of Faerghus, pink and shrunken. When they are fresh, they have rounded petals and a lighter color. Dedue saw many of these flowers in Fhirdiad, but with Ashe’s smiling face staring up at him, Dedue is reminded only of Garreg Mach. </p><p>“The next time you visit, there will be a larger variety of ingredients,” Dedue says, setting the packet aside. “We will use the flowers then.” </p><p>Ashe beams at him, dimples creasing his cheeks.</p><p>Mercedes visits a few months later, just as the warmest days of Duscur’s summer are upon them. He takes her around the town with him, introducing her to the people of Duscur who have returned. Mostly they are Nofre’s men, but a few others have joined them - an old woman who had been living in Gautier; a young man who had wandered all the way to the Alliance and only just wandered back; a pair of sisters who had made their livelihood fishing on the Rhodos Coast. </p><p>“Everyone is so kind,” Mercedes says as they walk back to Dedue’s home. “It’s wonderful how they all seem to work together.”</p><p>“That is the way of Duscur,” Dedue says, though in truth it is less smooth than that. Their town has no identity and no official leader. Nofre and his second-in-command squabble over the role while the rest ignore them both. There is little trade with the neighboring towns, small as they are, and too much tension with the remaining Faerghans. Worst of all is their continued dependence on supplies from Fhirdiad. Dimitri sends them without needing to be asked, but no one in Duscur is comfortable relying on Faerghus for so long.</p><p>Still, Dedue cannot help but be proud of what they have accomplished. Already, Duscur is so different from the empty shell it was when he arrived. Mercedes had told him years ago that, even if Duscur was gone, Dedue himself was still there; but now Duscur lives again, and Dedue with it. </p><p>This leaves Dedue eager to show Mercedes his own progress, separate from the town’s. He shows her his garden, where finally the plants of Duscur have taken root once more. “There are no flowers yet,” Dedue says. “It may take several years for them to appear again.” </p><p>Mercedes touches the dark, waxy leaf of a sapling and smiles. “That’s alright. They have all the time in the world, don’t they?”</p><p>More people of Duscur trickle in slowly as the second year comes to an end. A woman comes with her three children, only the eldest of whom is old enough to have lived through the massacre; another woman comes with her Srengi husband and her half-Srengi daughter. Nofre and his second-in-command are too busy building houses together to argue for a time. They even find harmony long enough to build something of a meeting place in the hopes that it can eventually be used as a school for the children. </p><p>Dedue tends to his plants during the day, then at sundown cooks dinner for the whole community using the supplies Dimitri sends and the ingredients Ashe gave him. The clatter and arguments of dozens of people reminds him of Garreg Mach, though the voices speak in the Duscur tongue and the Duscur way, quieter and more sedate than his classmates at the monastery ever were. </p><p>One of the women is working on a long-scale plan to breed her goats into a herd without inbreeding; another is hard at work keeping rabbits, much to her own frustration. “It’ll be worth it for the skins and meat,” she says as Dedue ladles soup onto her plate, “but they really will chew through anything.” </p><p>They hold a wedding for the earth god and the sky god in the third year, as they once did every year. Halfway through, Dedue discovers he has forgotten the words to the song, and he falters. But the woman to his left sings louder, until they get to the part of the song she too has forgotten, and someone else sings louder to help her in turn. And in that fashion, they piece it back together again and teach it to the children.</p><p>The goat-breeding scheme works well enough that there is milk to go around by then. One of the men is already speculating about cheesemaking, while another has put in a bid to try and ferment some of it. There’s plenty of rabbit meat, too, and Dedue sends a letter to Dimitri telling him he does not need to send quite so many supplies. </p><p>In the spring of the fourth year, Dedue’s flowers bloom. </p><p>The first are large white blossoms that spill over the trellis Nofre helped him make. They smell like honey, and their sweetness makes them a favorite of the younger children, now that there are enough children for them to separate themselves into groups. Dedue warns them patiently not to step on the flowers, but he is never surprised to find a snapped stem or two. He doesn’t get angry; the flowers will survive. </p><p>Next are vibrant purple flowers, striped darker at their edges, emerging from the shrubs Dedue planted first. He offers a few up to the god of the earth beside a saucer of goat milk and is unsurprised when he wakes the next morning and finds that they have been eaten by rabbits instead. </p><p>Then come the red blossoms. Little star-shaped blooms emerge from between dark, waxy leaves in clusters that make it impossible to pick only one at a time. Dedue does not try; instead, he picks whole handfuls. When the children come and play near his garden, he shares the flowers with them. Most of them are not interested, but the little half-Srengi girl is always happy to take a flower from his hand, twirling it between her fingers before she tucks it into her braid. It hurts Dedue each time he sees her do it, but each time it hurts a little less. </p><p>Dimitri sends fewer supplies, as requested, but he keeps sending just as many letters, telling Dedue of the going-ons in Fhirdiad, of the antics of his advisors, even - as long as Dedue is certain to press the matter in his own letters - how he is doing and feeling.</p><p>Dedue reads each letter carefully. By now, the sight of Dimitri’s writing is more than just familiar; it is welcoming. The painstaking way he dots his letters is as calming as the sight of a friend’s face. Still, Dedue wonders when Dimitri will call him back. It has been so long since Dimitri first told him to go. In that time, Duscur has improved in ways Dedue had thought impossible. Not healed yet, but healing. Surely Dimitri will require Dedue’s return soon. </p><p>Dedue enjoys every letter he receives, possibly more than he should. And he will always obey Dimitri’s commands. But privately, he admits to himself that he is not unhappy that Dimitri has not yet called him back to Fhirdiad. Of course, it is not ideal to rely only on letters to gauge how Dimitri is doing, and he would like the opportunity to see their friends more often. And he will be very pleased to see Dimitri again. But every day that Duscur grows, vibrant and alive, Dedue finds he can breathe a little more easily.</p><p>In the end, Dimitri does not send a letter ordering his return. Instead, Dimitri comes to Duscur. </p><p>There is almost no warning. Dedue is tending his garden, carefully pruning the ripe squash off the vine, when one of the older children dashes past his home. “The King of Faerghus is here!” She shouts, and Dedue nearly tears a vine in half. </p><p>From there it is a mad scramble. Dedue takes little solace in the fact that it seems everyone else is scrambling as well; he knows Dimitri will not judge his countrymen for the sweat on their brows. But he finds himself scrubbing his own face regardless, combing his hair with his fingers and wondering when he let it get so long before twisting it up in a high ponytail. </p><p>Dimitri’s actual arrival is heralded by more children, gawking at a careful distance. That is how Dedue sees him for the first time in years: surrounded by children and smiling at them awkwardly, his back straight and his shoulders relaxed. His hair has gotten longer, too, and he wears it loose around his shoulders, only a pair of braids that meet in the back keeping it in order. He carries no weapon and, Dedue despairs to see, wears no armor. But his clothes, all in royal Faerghan blue, show that he has been eating more than weeds, at least. Dedue has spent so long worrying about Dimitri, especially when he has been far from him; the sight of his broad chest and unshadowed eyes eases that a little. </p><p>It is easy to tell when Dimitri sees Dedue for the first time. The awkward smile on his face eases into something softer and unpracticed. “Dedue!” He calls, and the children all swing their heads around as one unit. </p><p>Dedue realizes, perhaps belatedly, that it is unlikely any of them know their village chef is also a vassal of the King of Faerghus. </p><p>“Your Majesty,” Dedue says, and Dimitri groans and jogs closer. </p><p>“Dedue,” he says reproachfully, but stops when he sees the way Dedue can’t stop one corner of his mouth from turning up, his own smile deepening in response. </p><p>They walk together through the town. Everyone stares. No one is eager to talk to Dimitri. Only the children crowd around, too young to remember just how badly it went the last time a King of Faerghus came to Duscur.</p><p>Dedue finds that he doesn’t mind. He knows it will take more time for his people to trust any from Faerghus again, especially their king. For now, it is enough to be able to spend time in Dimitri’s presence. He only realizes how much he missed it with Dimitri here before him, nodding seriously as Dedue talks, paying him the utmost attention as he explains the communal meals they share and the lessons he has started giving the children on the days when he has more time.</p><p>No, not just paying him attention - watching him closely, and with something like relief. “Dimitri?” Dedue asks, the name still awkward on his tongue. He hasn’t had many opportunities to say it.</p><p>Dimitri smiles. “It is good to see you so happy, Dedue,” he says.</p><p>Dedue looks away, feeling his face heat.</p><p>They walk side by side to Dedue’s home. In town, Dimitri had looked at everything around him while Dedue had looked at Dimitri. Now they look at each other, and Dedue finds it difficult to suppress his questions every time their eyes meet.</p><p>Finally, he decides he might as well ask. “Do you wish for me to return to Fhirdiad with you, Dimitri?” </p><p>“Ah.” Dimitri laughs. “Do I wish it? I thought I did, though I had no intention of asking you when you clearly love being here. But now that I’ve actually seen you here, I wish for you to remain exactly where you are.” </p><p>“Dimitri.” He doesn’t know what else to say.</p><p>“Don’t misunderstand me!” Dimitri says hastily. “Of course I want you with me. I always want you with me. But you’ve built a life here, Dedue. And it seems to be a beautiful one. And I - ” he rubs his shoulder with his opposite hand. “I hope it doesn’t sound too foolish if I say that it makes everything we’ve accomplished feel real. I’m proud of you...my friend.” </p><p>He’s not wearing his gloves. Every day in Fhirdiad and every day after, Dedue had seen Dimitri in those long gloves of his, hiding away his hands. Dedue suspected Dimitri slept with them on. But here Dimitri is, hands bare and unguarded, so close Dedue could touch them. </p><p>“Dimitri,” he says again, voice softer this time.</p><p>But Dimitri is not looking at him; he is looking ahead, mouth open slightly. “Oh,” he says. “Dedue.” </p><p>And Dedue turns, and looks at his home with new eyes. </p><p>The wood cottage was clearly built and then maintained with care, its gently sloping roof clean and unburdened. The wide porch is covered in potted plants, spaced carefully so there is a path between them. Birds come here and there to eat their portion, filling the air with birdsong alongside the sweet smell of honey.</p><p>And everywhere, there are flowers. A great lawn of colors, reds and blues and purples, small flowers and large ones, vines and bushes and trees; the cottage is surrounded by life, strong and vibrant. Even the squashes overtaking the vegetable garden seem to glow in the afternoon light. </p><p>Dedue has gotten so used to being surrounded by such beauty that it had become - not ignorable, exactly. But part of his daily routine. He is used to being in a beautiful place, surrounded by beautiful things. He enjoys it, but it is no longer a rare occasion worth remarking upon. Because this is the life he has built for himself. </p><p>And he does love it, he realizes. He could go back to Fhirdiad and bear the disdain of the Faerghans for however many years it takes Dimitri to fulfill his promise of building a Faerghus proud of Duscur blood. But he stands in a place proud of his Duscur blood right now, with Dimitri, who is proud of <i>him</i>. </p><p>There is only one reason he would leave, and that reason is standing beside him right now, staring in awe at Dedue’s home. “It’s beautiful,” Dimitri says. “I should have visited sooner.”</p><p>“Yes,” Dedue says, because he cannot ask the King of Faerghus to stay in Duscur forever. “You will have to visit more often.” </p><p>“I will,” Dimitri says, turning to Dedue to smile at him. He is so very close to him like this; Dedue is no longer a careful, appropriate distance behind him, and he finds that he does not miss it. </p><p>He is not sure what spurs him to move. Perhaps it is merely the realization that his life here could be permanent; perhaps it is the look on Dimitri’s face, whole and content, a moment of perfect happiness after years where such a thing seemed permanently out of reach. Whatever it is, Dedue finds himself surprising them both when he reaches for Dimitri’s hand and entwines their fingers together. </p><p>“Dedue,” Dimitri says, his face flushing as he looks down at their hands. </p><p>Dedue can hardly believe himself either. But they are in a world where Dedue can call Dimitri his friend if he so chooses. Here, at least, the impossible space between them has closed, and Dedue can focus on the weight of Dimitri’s hand in his. Dedue’s hand is bigger than Dimitri’s, but they have many of the same scars, and their weapon calluses catch against each other. It makes Dedue want to run his thumb over each one and soothe any remaining hurts with his touch.</p><p>Such a thing seemed impossible only moments before, but Dedue holds Dimitri’s hand firmly in his own, feeling Dimitri’s grip tighten in response, and his thumb moves over the back of Dimitri’s hand as if it has done so countless times before. “Let me show you every part of the life I have built,” he says. Together they walk down the path, and Dedue tells him the names of the flowers that grow once more in the fields where his sister once danced.</p>
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